ROOM FOR EXAMINATION

For all of James's blogposts, books, and more, visit https://www.jameschanningshaw.com

My blog has been rather silent for a while. I'm sure you've been heartbroken. The reason is that I've been working on my new book, the title shown below. It finally went live on Kindle this week and is available through the Kindle store. If you do not own a Kindle, the Kindle app is free for ipads and iphones, possibly other computers.

This is an account of my career as doctor and dermatologist; the training, the patients, doctors, the practice in both private and academic settings. 

Here's an excerpt from the first chapter:

One Friday, Mrs. Berenson, a woman in her late fifties, was hospitalized for severe psoriasis. Hers was much worse than most. I took a history and examined her. We ordered some standard treatments and I left for the weekend. Over the years she had become familiar with the hospitalization routine.

When I arrived Monday morning, Dr. Raugi broke the terrible news. Early Saturday morning Mrs. Berenson climbed out her tenth floor window without being noticed by nurses, and jumped to her death.

        As soon as I could, I went alone to her room. It smelled of disinfectant. I closed the door, muffling the voices that came from the corridor. What had we missed? We must have missed something. This wasn't the psych ward; this was dermatology. I could hear a siren in the distance. I put my head against the glass to look down at the flat roof of the service entrance ten floors below. A shiver crossed my shoulders. Dermatology patients don't commit suicide. Had there been clues? Morning sun shimmered on the river and bridges below in the city. Admittedly, her diagnosis was a severe form of psoriasis, the pustular type of psoriasis, the von Zumbusch type that covers the entire body, and she had struggled with it for years. I pulled open the window, letting in traffic noise, and pushed it closed again. There had been prior hospitalizations. Maybe Mrs. Berenson had had enough of the repeated admissions and poor results. Did we make the mistake of directing all our attention to her skin disease while overlooking a profoundly depressed, suicidal woman? I looked around the room. Housekeeping had already made up her bed. More likely, we missed something much larger. We, Medicine, the profession of medicine, had failed her.

I hope you get a chance to read the book!

James Channing Shaw